


Classical Brilliance and Dumb Blondes

by orphan_account



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, But Is He Really?, Jim Kirk Is an Idiot, M/M, Spock Just Wants to Do Science, Spock Was Raised on Earth, This Has Had Far-Reaching Consequences, Vulcans Can Be Bastards, What Do You Love Someone for When It's Not Their Mind?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock has never met anyone whose mind is more incompatible with his own than James T. Kirk's.<br/>And THIS is coming from a child rejected from both Earth and Vulcan, hiding in obscurity and really slightly terrified of working this close to Starfleet Academy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Argh. I... wrote this a while ago. Hopefully someone will love it.  
> I think it needs to get off my computer if it ever is to finish getting written.  
> Clearly, I don't write for Star Trek.  
> Also, I hope that this isn't too off-putting after the comedy oneshot that I wrote for this fandom previously. While I heart and snuggle goofy Spock and Kirk greatly, I want to write stuff like this occasionally too...  
> Anyway, it has actual plot and will get there eventually, I promise. Plus, hey, you get to see Spock being not-so-Vulcan with his feelings! Which I think is pretty fun!

For the first three minutes of their acquaintance, Spock is confused.  
  
He actually looks around the room again, although he is sure that his first visual sweep was conclusive. But there is no one else in the bar wearing a red shirt, so Spock goes back to the man slouched in a corner table, with his muddy feet propped up on the tabletop, headphones over his ears (and Spock can hear metallic pop blaring from where he’s standing across the room), and a flimsy paperback novel titled _Mrs. Daisy Goes to the Moon_. The man is snickering at the antique, and in front of him is an array of seven lollipops, the eighth of which is in his mouth.  
  
(The wrapper is on the floor. Spock steps around it on his way over).  
  
“Hello,” Spock says, uncertain as to how he should approach this situation. The human does not appear to notice that Spock is standing over his table. He giggles, and turns a page in his novel. Spock cautiously sets a hand down on the tabletop—  
  
He regrets this deeply in a matter of seconds. The surface is scummy in a way no eating establishment furniture should ever be.  
  
“Excuse me,” Spock says, a little louder, and a flush of embarrassment crawls over him as other bar patrons look over. He is becoming a disturbance, and he experiences a moment of intense enmity towards Scott, because this is entirely his fault.  
  
Out of a lack of options, Spock reaches out and interposes his hand between the book and the human’s nose. There is a tense moment where he thinks that the man won’t notice this either, but slowly, eyes crawl up Spock’s arm and reach his face. Spock averts his eyes from the other man’s quickly, but not before he has the impression of their being very blue. “Excuse me,” he says again.  
  
The human shifts, and pries a headphone from one very round, very human ear. “What?” He asks, voice loud enough to make Spock wince. Spock does not look around the bar again, though. He has no desire to take note of the staring.  
  
“I am Spock,” Spock identifies himself quietly—and nearly stumbles back when the human suddenly reels towards him, climbing halfway over the table in seconds. “I—hello,” he says, taken aback.  
  
The human’s eyes rake at him. They are still very blue. Spock appears to have become fixated on them, which does not bode well. The human’s face wrinkles up in confusion. Slightly hostile confusion, if Spock is not mistaken.  
  
“Who the hell’re you?” He demands. His voice is rough and has a slurred, imprecise quality to it. Spock’s fingers curl in distress.  
  
“I am Spock,” he repeats, feeling completely out of his element. “You are James Kirk, correct?” When this prompts the human’s eyes to narrow to slits and to suddenly be out of his chair and on his feet, Spock manages, “Are you not acquainted with Montgomery Scott?”  
  
The thus-far-unidentified human’s face twists as though the candy in his mouth has suddenly grown unfavorable. “ _Montgomery_ … Hey. You talkin’ bout Scotty?”  
  
Spock has heard Scott referred to as such before. He nods warily and to his relief, the human returns to his chair. “Oh,” he mumbles, and reclaims his paperback. “S’up. Forgot you were comin’.”  
  
He apparently begins to read again and Spock, at a loss, continues to stand awkwardly in front of the table. He hears giggles among the bar patrons.  
  
After 6.2 minutes the human peers over the top of his paperback, the color of his eyes again violently assaulting Spock. “Gonna sit, big guy?”  
  
Spock deduces that this is truly James Kirk, and not some fevered nightmare brought on by long hours in the lab. He sits stiffly, and tries not to touch the grimy table with any part of his body. Kirk replaces his shoes upon the surface and Spock watches a clump of mud fall from them and land in front of his nose.  
  
Spock seriously hates Scott right now.

\----

Six months ago, Spock applied for a position with one of the Starfleet Research Labs in San Francisco, CA, Earth. Up until then, Spock had been working as a troubleshooter for a modest software designer, so he knew the odds of his getting the position. The only reason he’d sent in the application that had littered up his desk for the past three months was because it was either send the thing in or run it through the paper shredder in a fit of nerves, and one choice was vastly more logical than the other.  
  
He’d been more than a little shocked (and slightly terrified) when 2.3 weeks later, he’d gotten a call from Montgomery Scott himself, co-head of the project, and been requested for an interview. After the deeply trying experience that was attempting to explain how long he’d been following the mobile transporter research Starfleet was working on—without overtly stating that he knew more than was strictly legal considering the security clearance involved—Scott had finally peered at Spock across the immaculate holodesk and said, “You do know you’re hired, yeah? Th’interview is just a formality. Are you sure you dinnae want to sit down?”  
  
And the rest, as they say, was history.  
  
Spock moved to San Francisco, where he lived in a tiny apartment, sandwiched between two neighbors, one of which had too many cats, the other of which was a perpetually drunk Tellarite. He’d found two vegetarian restaurants (which he never went to), taken the expected tours of San Francisco, purchased a library subscription card, and gotten used to Scott’s accent. He spent nearly all his time in the labs, working primarily with Dinauri, Chekov, and Syrek, or with Scott himself. He was content.  
  
Until Dinauri had started asking about his personal life.  
  
“You know, I never see you out and about,” she called up to Spock, who was in the process of tightening the compression coils of their new transporter hub.  
  
Spock had noted that 82% of his interactions with Gaila Dinauri took place while he was performing manual repairs. He had deep suspicions about whether this was the case because he was effectively immobilized at such times and couldn’t extract himself from the situation without decreasing work efficiency. “I know even Syrek goes to the botanical gardens and attends on-campus lectures. You must do something for fun…”  
  
“Affirmative,” Spock said. He could only achieve 58% certainty of the coil’s integrity with a pressure wrench. He glanced down at his Orion coworker. “Please hand me the magnetizer.”  
  
“You’re stalling,” Dinauri observed, and handed him the tool anyway. “Come on, Spock. We’ve been working together for ages. Aren’t we friends?”  
  
Spock had never been entirely comfortable on the subject of ‘friendship’. Vulcans, he knew, weren’t supposed to have them. And Syrek was watching their interaction with raised eyebrows (Spock resisted the urge to frown because Syrek had calculations to run through and should not have let his focus stray elsewhere).  
  
Even so, Spock swallowed and turned his attention back to the reassuring null-sociality that was the compression coil. “You are a valued and trusted coworker, Dinauri.”  
  
Spock actually did know her pretty well at this point, because he could all but hear her pout. “ _Gaila_.”  
  
“Gaila Dinauri,” Spock compromised, and made his final adjustments to the compression coils before he slithered back out of the machine. Fresh oxygen hit his lungs, creating a pleasing sensation. He looked back at the machine. “Shall we begin testing the hub?”  
  
“Spock,” Dinauri whined. “We were having a nice conversation and everything.”  
  
“We are working,” Spock objected politely. “We should test the hub.”  
  
Before Dinauri could protest further, Scott suddenly appeared in their workspace. He did so with his usual volume, which did not make Spock jump and identify the closest building exit. Today.  
  
He was still getting used to Scott.  
  
“You’ll do no such thing!” The engineer bellowed, waving a data PADD at them, which Dinauri regarded with the cool gaze of someone totally unimpressed and Spock edged away from slightly. “The circuits aren’t in working order yet, someone forgot to clear out the coolant cylinders—“ From Checkov, scribbling theorem proofs on half a dozen PADDs, “Oops.”  
  
“—and the D-6 is on the blink again.”  
  
Ah, the D-6. Spock hated that thing with a passion. While he understood Scott’s insistence upon it, rather than the highly advanced fusion core the Academy ran off of—after all, a D-6 was what a person would be getting in most Federation outposts—it was, in Spock’s opinion, a temperamental, outdated, and largely defective piece of machinery. On occasions, Spock had to talk himself out of upgrading the engine.  
  
…With a phaser.  
  
“What’s wrong with the circuits?” Dinauri asked. Scott shrugged.  
  
“Cannae say. But efficiency is at 75% or so; we’ll be needing to check.”  
  
Dinauri felt the need to state, “There are 258 circuits.”  
  
Scott responded, “Which is why we’ll be getting started on them now.”  
  
Dinauri smiled toothily, and Spock covertly moved away from her in case she tried to punch the project co-head again. Instead the Orion woman sighed and motioned for Spock to follow her. Scott came along with them, consulting his data PADD over where they should start. The three of them were neck-deep in machinery when Scott piped up,  
  
“So, Spock. What is it that you do in your leisure hours?”  
  
And 258 circuits later, Spock’s private life laid bare before them, they decided that the hub was ready to run.  
  
Oh, and that Spock’s life was deeply flawed.  
  
“Do you ever even leave your house?” Dinauri asked in tones of fascination. Spock raised his eyebrows at her, because: the labs were not his house. She pouted. “You know what I mean!”  
  
“I obtain groceries,” Spock allowed. Scott had just returned, bearing a bag that smelled of the highly hydrogenated corn snack Scott insisted on before test runs.  
  
“Ooh, popcorn,” Dinauri said happily, dodging Scott’s slapping hands to snag a handful. “Want some, Spock?”  
  
“I do not comprehend why you insist on eating substances of detrimental nutritional value,” Spock reminded her dutifully. She rolled her eyes.  
  
“You are a sad, sad man,” Scott informed him. “Alright, lads and lasses, goggles on.”  
  
Goggle securely in place (no one wanted to go blind just because energy transformers malfunctioned), Dinauri began to enter the experiment parameters. Scott munched a handful of popcorn. “You know, you really could get out and about a bit more, Mr. Spock. See the world. You’ve been on Earth for near twenty-five years, and sometimes it seems like that one—“ a nod of Scott’s head towards where Syrek (eyes now concealed behind tinted goggles) “—knows more about this place than you do.”  
  
“Syrek is an observant and intelligent individual,” Spock said.  
  
“Energize,” Dinauri called out. The transporter hub hummed, lighting up, and Dinauri sat back. “Beginning resistance test at 13:06 hours.”  
  
“And you hate each other,” Scott said, goggles doing nothing to conceal his amusement.  
  
“Hate would be illogical,” Spock murmured. “I have nothing but respect for… Syrek’s many accomplishments.”  
  
“Aye, respect him you do,” Scott said, leaning back against the console. “That dinnae mean you can’t hate him, and he can’t hate you.” Scott gave a snort. “You won’t have nothing to do with each other, unless it’s about _matter converters_.”  
  
His tone implied that there was something deeply wrong with this. Spock could not fathom why. No one doubted Syrek’s expertise with matter converters, least of all Spock. Which was why he left that work almost entirely to Syrek, and people better qualified to deal with matter converters (and Syrek).  
  
“It is kind of obvious,” Dinauri put in, apparently grown bored of watching the transporter hub not explode.  
  
Spock put his arms behind his back. “I would appreciate it if you would both cease antagonizing me.” This prompted them to cackle. On neither part did it sound particularly repentant. Spock sighed.  
  
The transporter hub passed its resistance test easily, and maintained full functionality throughout the battery of efficiency, precision, and energy wave tests. That meant the lab could officially move on to the next phase of testing, and hopefully not melt key pieces of machinery this time.  
  
It did not necessitate that Dinauri and Scott (who had now also recruited Checkov) move on from their favorite in-work pastime; badgering Spock about his personal life.  
  
“Spock, did you know that socialization is a vital component of every known living being’s health?”  
  
“I appreciate your concern. However, I find myself within acceptable parameters of social contact within the context of my work.”  
  
Or:  
  
“Mr. Spock, if you are thinking that there are no nice people to meet—I was thinking when I came to America—I can say that I have found many friends. We have many nice conversations… This is sufficient compensation for ionic disturbance, yes?”  
  
“I appreciate your concern, Chekov, but I am inadequately equipped to deal with new people, particularly in that it is difficult to locate individuals with whom I share interests. And the ionic disturbance formulae appear adequate.”  
  
Or:  
  
“Morning, Spock. Myself and some lads from the Academy are getting together this fine evening for a drink or two. Care to join us?”  
  
“My apologies. I intend to go over the polarity readings, and will be occupied. Perhaps another time.”  
  
Proceed to looks of concerned disappointment.  
  
Quite frankly, it was getting old. Spock had no need of friends, his apartment provided adequate shelter, and his work provided mental stimulation bordering on ecstasy. His life was very fulfilling—the most it had ever been—and the fascination of his coworkers with Spock’s private time was beginning to fray his patience.  
  
So Scott had pulled rank.  
  
“Think o’ it as a social experiment, Mr. Spock, but you’re leaving your apartment this evening and that’s an order, so don’t expect to weasel your Vulcan way out of it. It’ll be just you and one of me mates, and you’ll have lots in common, and he’s the easiest sort to talk to there is. 18:00 hours, Treng’s Pub, he’ll be wearing sommat red, and you’ll _be there_.”  
  
There was an implied threat of terrible, terrible things coming to pass in the event that Spock wasn’t present. Apocalyptic things. _Being cut off from tinkering with the dematerialization vectors_ kinds of things.  
  
Piece delivered, Scott swept back the way he came. Silence stretched after him, in which Chekov stared wide-eyed at Spock, whose face was frozen in an expression of utter dismay, and Syrek audibly cleared his throat. Dinauri started applauding. She beamed at Spock when he did not quite glare at her.  
  
Later, as they were departing, Scotty came over to inform Spock, “Oh, that’s right. Forgot to mention. The man’s name is James Kirk. Good sort, I promise.”  
  
And the rest, as they say, was history.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go! The conversation with Jim. Gotta say, this one's a bit of a slow-starter, but it will get there.
> 
> Hope you like~  
> \----

Kirk was _not_ easy to speak to.  
  
Spock knew that his conversational skills were inadequate by the standards of anyone who did not wish to discuss complex warp mechanics and ionic speed differentials at length, but the thing was… he kind of didn’t think this was entirely his fault. Kirk did not seem happy to be here.  
  
Spock’s tentative hypothesis on the matter: Kirk had wanted to finish his book (which appeared to be on a third grade reading level, but Spock refrained from making judgments). But by now the book had been completed—along with lollipops two and three—and now Spock was just getting a surly scowl from across the table. The headphones, now around Kirk’s neck, blared the only sound at their table.  
  
And Spock was basically sitting there hoping that a freak meteorite would hit this drinking establishment so he would have an excuse to go home and lock all his doors and windows.  
  
“So,” Kirk finally said, drawing the syllable out into something that, again, managed to be threatening. “You must be one of them brainiacs working at the what’s-his-face lab thing.”  
  
“Cochrane Advancement Center, warp division,” Spock filled in automatically. He realized 2.3 seconds later that this was a mistake and shrank back in his chair.  
  
“With Scotty,” Kirk said again. Spock did not know why the human was repeating himself. He did not appear sufficiently intoxicated to be experiencing short term memory loss. He did not appear to be intoxicated at all, unless Spock had misjudged the contents of his Earth candies.  
  
“With Scott, correct,” Spock responded. Again, this got him glared at. Spock should probably refrain from speaking. His fingers twisted together in his lap.  
  
“And the _other_ pointy-eared dude,” Kirk went on. “Whatever his name is.”  
  
 _Syrek_ , Spock thought, and merely offered a nod. This seemed better received. He didn’t get glared at.  
  
The human leaned back lazily in his chair, and Spock noted with some alarm that it was now balanced on two legs. The human did not seem concerned, and merely eyed Spock. “…And whatcha called again?”  
  
“Spock,” Spock repeated for the fourth time, wondering if this human had a learning condition when it came to names. He’d never heard of such a thing, but he was beyond surprises this evening.  
  
“ _Spock_ ,” the human repeated, popping the last syllable of Spock’s name. Spock blinked at the sound. He was unused to confused pronunciations of his name; it had been selected specifically for ease of pronunciation among Earth peoples. Either way, Kirk did not seem aware that his enunciation had changed the Vulcan meaning of Spock’s name from a proper noun to a type of fish found in western mountain streams (and Spock was in no hurry to tell him).  
  
He just nodded again. Kirk rolled his eyes and his chair landed upright with a thud. “So, accordin’ to our fine Montgomery Scott, you and me’re supposed to talk and stuff.” Spock nodded, and Kirk went on, waving a hand vaguely in the air, “Can’t say I know jack shit about all your fancy warp whatever it is, course.”  
  
“I wouldn’t expect it of you,” Spock said faintly. And he wouldn’t; no more than anyone should have expected social skills of himself. He was quickly concluding that he needed to solicit Dinauri’s services, because Scott clearly needed to be punched. Spock doubted this human had anything in common with himself, except for bipedalism and apparently, an interest in literature (of a wildly divergent nature, but literature nonetheless).  
  
…And Spock was getting glowered at again.  
  
The effect of Kirk’s eye color, when combined with an expression of such antipathy, made Spock’s stomach turn. He really should cease speaking, but found it difficult to do so.  
  
“I see you have an interest in reading?” Spock attempted, choosing one of his mother’s vocal patterns. She had instructed Spock that phrasing objective statements as questions made them more palatable to the Terran ear. Instead of glaring, Kirk’s eyebrows rose in an expression of faint disbelief.  
  
Spock was immediately embarrassed. It was a pointless question. Clearly, Kirk was interested in whatever he’d just read, or he would not have taken the time to read it. “I was wondering if you would care to discuss your preferences.”  
  
“My preferences,” Kirk repeated flatly.  
  
“Yes,” Spock confirmed. He fidgeted slightly in his seat. Chances of Kirk’s reading material intercepting with Spock’s were roughly 15%. It would be illogical to hold out hope against these odds, but Spock was concluding that against all logic, he would rather do about anything other than sit in painfully awkward silence again.  
  
“Oh, you know.” And then Kirk smiled.  
  
To Spock, it was like having the chair pulled out from under him. He blinked rapidly, confusion and unease swirling through him as just about every other non-essential thought process shut down. He had witnessed a total of 3,476 Terran smiles in the past year, and none of them offered him any resistance to this one. Kirk’s whole face transformed. Spock felt entirely devastated.  
  
“Excuse me,” he managed, averting his eyes and forcing his heart rate back into acceptable parameters. He had not heard anything Kirk had just said. “Please repeat that.”  
  
Kirk’s voice was exceptionally dry, clearly unimpressed by Spock’s attentiveness. “Well, all the Mrs. Daisy stuff is pretty okay, but I mostly like the ones with pictures. If I want a challenge, there’s always _Slapfish_.”  
  
Oh dear.  
  
 _Slapfish_ was an atrocity of storytelling, which Spock had been forced to read as part of his second grade curriculum (before his mother had petitioned to let him test out of elementary school entirely). But he’d read it (though he regretted that with every fiber of his mortal being). Across from this human, Spock attempted to feign encouragement, instead of **immense repulsion**. “I… see.”  
  
Kirk stared at Spock, face slack. There was a total lack of intelligible expression on his face, which Spock supposed was the only possible response to contemplating _Slapfish_. “Oh my god,” Kirk whispered at the table, which Spock supposed he was not meant to hear, given the noise pollution of the pub. He politely pretended not to have done so.  
  
Kirk looked up again and demanded, “Okay. What kinda shit do you read, smart guy?”  
  
Spock opened his mouth—decided that the last book he’d read, _Postulations on Anti-Matter Transference_ was probably out of the question—and hesitated. “I recently completed _The Gods of Extraordinary Creatures_ ,” he offered.  
  
“Did’ja like it?” Kirk asked, setting down the third lollipop stick (on the table, why did he have to put them there; a perfectly serviceable trash can was located three meters to his left) and reaching for a fourth. Spock’s eyes helplessly tracked the wrapper as it soared to the floor, and tried not to twitch too obviously.  
  
With effort, he replied, “It was… interesting.” ‘Like’ did not really come into the equation. It was a creative novel and Spock was not irrational enough to start forming preferences about fictional universes. It had certainly not been as agonizing an experience as _Slapfish_. Dinauri had recommended it to him and Spock had read it to indicate his respect.  
  
Kirk was observing him as though Spock’s answer had been inadequate. Spock was having difficulty not observing lollipop wrapper number four. “It was divergent from my expectations?” Spock tried again.  
  
“What’s ‘divergent’ mean?” Kirk asked, twirling the new lollipop and looking very bored.  
  
 _What our opinions on_ Slapfish _are_ , Spock thought.  
  
“You know, if’n you take one of those,” Kirk waved a hand at the remaining candies, “It makes the time pass faster and stuff. Skock.”  
  
Illogical. In no way should ingesting artificially-flavored sugar impact the flow of time.  
  
But, Spock rationalized, if he had something in his mouth, he wouldn’t have to keep up this nightmare of a conversation and even though it would be silent, he could occupy himself with an analysis of the flavors—to try to denote the ingredients and factory origins of the lollipop.  
  
“My thanks,” he said, and selected the leftmost one. “Additionally, my name is Spock.”  
  
“Whatever,” Kirk replied, and his eyes vanished behind the book as he started reading it again and tipped his chair back.

\----

On Tuesday morning, Spock approached Dinauri. “Good morning,” he said. “I trust you have had a restful sleeping period?”  
  
“Spock!” Dinauri cried joyfully, and threw her arms around him. Spock bore this suffering patiently, and let Dinauri get it out of her system. Once he had been thoroughly made to smell like a combination of Orion pheromones and female bathing products, she released him with a frown. “You never take initiative and say hello. Are you in a good mood?”  
  
“I do not express divergent moods,” Spock told her. However he was deeply gratified when Dinauri did not ask him about his vocabulary.  
  
She smirked at him. “Right. Sure you don’t.”  
  
Spock chose not to comment. “Dinauri—“  
  
“Gaila.”  
  
“Gaila Dinauri, I would like to request your services.” Spock was abruptly aware that Syrek had entered the labs. With a touch of defiance, he continued and did not lower his voice. “If at all possible, I require that you punch Mr. Scott.” He would do it himself, except Spock did not wish to intimidate his superior or intimate a lapse in control where there was none.  
  
This was not lapsed judgment. Spock refused to let Syrek’s pointedly disapproving expression convince him otherwise when Dinauri beamed at him and immediately chirped, “Where, and how hard?”  
  
Scott spent the rest of that day’s working period rubbing his shoulder and shooting Dinauri deeply wounded looks that she ignored with a beatific smile.  
  
“So, you've nae said a thing yet. How’d it go with Jim?” Scott asked Spock at lunch, still giving Dinauri a reproachful frown from the other side of his sandwich. Dinauri had attached herself to Spock, which Spock supposed was either an attempt at solidarity or his payment for services rendered.  
  
Spock answered as politely as possible, “I would prefer you not make such requests of me again, Mr. Scott.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dinauri added. “Leave poor Spock alone. You’re scaring him.”  
  
Just to be clear, Spock was in no way experiencing the emotion of fear, and Syrek could stop pursing his lips at any time.  
  
Scott wrinkled his nose at them and busied himself with a thermos, muttering about, “All my assistants pick on me.”  
  
It was a satisfactory conclusion.  
  
A complete, closed-ended conclusion.  
  
And then Kirk showed up at the labs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expanding the cast, bwa ha ha! Now we have Sulu. I know you guys are secretly jumping up and down with excitement. Don't lie. I see straight through you. I am magic.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> Yes, they _are_ all jerks, aren't they?  
>  \----

It had been five days since Spock’s disastrous social encounter with James Kirk, and he had recovered entirely from it. Dinauri had stopped hugging him on sight with the justification of Spock’s “looking like a kicked puppy,” research was progressing at a steady rate, Spock had corrected the two flaws in Chekov’s latest theorem, and there were five new library books downloaded to his PADD, all of which were appealing. Spock had also bought a cereus cactus plant at the combined insistence of his workfellows and was pleased to report that it had not spontaneously died over the weekend.  
  
He approached the labs rested, nutritionally stable, and eager to get back to work.  
  
As soon as he reached the doors, he heard laughter trailing from them. He was able to identify two of the participants in the ruckus as Chekov and Dinauri, but there were at least two more voices he did not recognize. Curious (and somewhat perturbed; Spock was unused to unfamiliar faces in the lab), he crept through the doors soundlessly.  
  
The noise came from a cluster of five individuals at the work tables—Scott, Dinauri, Chekov, and one… No, _two_ unidentified males. From behind, one of them bore a passing resemblance to Syrek, but in the event that Syrek engaged in laughter, Spock would officially concede that the world had ended.  
  
“And _that_ , my friends, is what happens when you cross the great Hikaru Sulu,” one unfamiliar man announced loudly. “You end up in a public area without pants.” His vocal pattern was significantly different from Syrek’s, Spock noted with relief—and his statement prompted Chekov to nearly tip off his chair giggling.  
  
“I can’t believe you did that,” Dinauri noted in tones of wonder. “I can’t believe I wasn’t _there_ , watching.”  
  
“Recording it for the masses,” someone else put in.  
  
“For historical accuracy.”  
  
And then they were all laughing again, clearly delighted with the social proceedings. Spock did not wish to interrupt.  
  
Cordial social interaction was key for both human and Orion species and research was progressing well. This congregation was not detrimental. Interruption would have been without benefit, and furthermore, it would have been uncharitable. So Spock went to his workstation, intending to work unnoticed until the meeting was adjourned, but apparently was not as subtle as he thought.  
  
“Spock!”  
  
It would be considerably easier to deal with Dinauri if she was either lacking in superior observational skills, or the perverse desire to make Spock feel uncomfortable.  
  
Spock looked reluctantly up from his PADD and was faced with a manic Orion grin and Chekov’s cheerful wave. “Come join us, Mr. Spock,” Scott called, raising a mug (which Spock deeply hoped contained coffee, because Scott was dreadful under the influence of alcohol—he came up with some of his most brilliant ideas, but no one could understand him until he explained it all the next morning).  
  
Spock walked to their table tentatively, trying not to look at anyone. This was an unprecedented interaction and Spock tried to school his thoughts into something approaching an approved script before looking up. Beside Chekov was the man Spock had mistaken for Syrek—a man of Oriental descent who gave Spock a curious once-over before offering an unassuming smile (Spock gave a nervous nod in return). Between Scott and Dinauri was…  
  
Oh.  
  
(Oh no.)  
  
“Spock,” Dinauri said with a giggle (she had her arms around the man’s neck, and Spock stomped down on an irrational sense of betrayal). “You didn’t tell me Scott set you up with _Jim Kirk_!”  
  
Spock winced slightly. Kirk’s smile was… frozen. It was as though Spock was watching water funnel down the drain; with every second that passed, there was less of a smile and more of a scowl that made Spock want to back away _very much_.  
  
“I did not know it was relevant,” he finally managed, stiffly enough that everyone’s eyebrows went up a little bit. Except for Kirk’s. Kirk’s scowl was now firmly in place, letting Spock know exactly how little his presence was appreciated.  
  
Spock attempted to salvage the situation. “Good morning, Kirk.” He coupled this with a nod. It was not returned. The scowl persisted. Across the table, Chekov was staring at it like it was the most fascinating thing in the room. This more or less confirmed Spock’s theory that he was especially hated, and he cleared his throat before looking at the unfamiliar, non-hostile human. “Good morning to you as well. I am Spock.”  
  
“It’s Hikaru Sulu,” the man filled in, and Spock’s relief was immense. “You work with Chekov, right?” Sulu then held his hand out to Spock.  
  
And Spock froze up like he’d never dealt with this before.  
  
In fairness, it had been a while. San Francisco was nothing like Spock’s hometown, particularly in its familiarity with xeno-residents. No one had tried to shake Spock’s hand since he’d arrived, but here it was, and Spock’s hands went behind his back automatically. Dinauri and Chekov stared between the two of them in alarm; Kirk continued to scowl. Spock was even considering shaking Sulu’s hand just to defuse the sudden awkwardness at the table, but at this point Scott looked up from his mug, frowned, and kicked Sulu under the table.  
  
“ _Vulcan_ ,” he said, jerking the mug at Spock. Sulu just looked confused. Scott rolled his eyes. “Don’t touch his hands.”  
  
Sulu’s mouth made an ‘o’. Across the table, Kirk snorted, and Spock noted that the laughter and smiles had entirely dissipated. Spock had been in error to enter the room, and regretted it.  
  
Sulu’s hand fell back to the table and he gave Spock another easy grin. “Sorry, man. Didn’t know.”  
  
“Apologies are unnecessary,” Spock quickly said. If anyone should have apologized, it was him. The silence that followed was uncomfortable, and Spock tried to fill it, “Where is Syrek? Is he late to arrive?”  
  
Spock, obviously, had not been late. Syrek was constantly trying to find issue with Spock’s punctuality, but all attempts had been unsuccessful. Regardless of Spock’s heritage, he was capable of managing his time.  
  
(Regardless of his heritage, he also would not gloat in the event that Syrek had actually shown up to work late. Really.)  
  
“Eh,” Scott waved a dismissive hand. “He was here.”  
  
“I think we were too loud,” Chekov confessed, and looked at Spock apologetically. Spock did not know how to respond to this. He stared back impassively, and wasn’t entirely surprised when this seemed to infuriate Kirk.  
  
Kirk shoved away from the table with a clatter of his chair. “And that’s all folks! That be more than enough killjoy Martian for me.” Spock winced at his grammar more than his sentiment. He did not correct Kirk’s views on what planet he was from, even though Mars had been proven inhospitable to life for the past three centuries.  
  
Spock suspected it would be a futile effort.  
  
“Jim!” Dinauri slapped playfully at his arm, throwing Spock an incredulous look. Spock chose not to attempt interpretation. “Knock it off! You’re being rude.”  
  
“I just can’t help it, Gaila dear,” Kirk said, exaggerating a kiss against her cheek that appeared to Spock both inappropriate and slightly unsanitary. “Two’s me limit—“ he had somehow transformed the word ‘limit’ into some aberration of three syllables and Spock groaned internally “—‘fore I get anxious-like and compuzzled and start talking not-sense.”  
  
‘Compuzzled’ was not a word. Spock’s hand twitched behind his back.  
  
Scott was staring at his companion, like he’d only just now been introduced to Kirk’s tenuous grasp on Standard. “…You feeling alright, Jim?”  
  
“All okie-doke here, Chief,” Kirk said, giving Scott a Starfleet salute that was so mangled even Spock could tell. And unlike at least three of the individuals in this room (he was not sure about Sulu and he was entirely convinced that any Starfleet official who’d let James Kirk in would have to be deeply disturbed), he’d never even been enrolled in the Academy. “Jus’ I ain’t wantin’ to fuck up your here brainiac’s brainiackin’.” This was coupled with a vicious glare in Spock’s direction.  
  
‘Brainiacking’ was also not a word. Spock was growing perilously close to having to attempt some deep-breathing exercises.  
  
At least Kirk was far enough away that Spock wasn’t sent reeling every time his brain informed him of the exact shade of blue his eyes were.  
  
“So long, Sock,” Kirk said on his way out.  
  
The door slammed behind him and Spock said to it, “…My name is Spock.”  
  
He could almost hear the answering ‘whatever.’  
  
When he turned back to the table, all four individuals seated there were staring at him in apparent fascination. Including Sulu, and Spock didn’t think he’d done anything to merit that because he hardly knew Sulu.  
  
“ _What_?” Scott demanded of them all. When no one answered, he took a long, hard drink from his mug in such a fashion that Spock knew its contents were not coffee.  
  
Spock’s hands, which had migrated into a vaguely defensive position in front of him, retreated to his back. “May I return to my workspace, Mr. Scott?” Spock asked, because given a choice between getting stared at and theoretical physics, he would never turn down the physics.  
  
Scott gaped at him, and eventually nodded. Spock fled to his work desk and pulled up the data, trying very hard to ignore the fact that they might still be staring.  
  
He did get to work uninterrupted for 30.45 minutes before Syrek entered the labs and resumed pointedly not making comments about Spock’s myriad faults. Between that, Scott being drunk, brilliant, and utterly unintelligible all morning, _and_ the emotionally charged reunion with his least favorite human in this city, by lunch Spock was ready to call it quits for the day and go home to cuddle with his cactus.  
  
Dinauri, who had been staring at Spock from afar all day without speaking to him, fell into the seat across from him as soon as Spock tried to eat. “Spill,” she demanded.  
  
Spock looked at his thermos of tea, unwilling.  
  
Dinauri rolled her eyes. “Not literally!” She snapped her fingers rapidly in front of Spock’s face—which he very much did not appreciate—and they frowned at each other when their eyes met again. From behind Spock, someone (Syrek, _obviously_ ) gave a delicate cough, and Spock took a deep breath, clenching his hands into fists.  
  
Dinauri’s eyes were wide when he looked back at her. “Whoa.” Her mouth twisted. “You’re seriously pissed off, aren’t you?”  
  
Spock could _feel_ Syrek’s smug satisfaction from feet away. He could genuinely feel it, and he currently hated his heightened telepathic capacity. “…I will admit that I have found certain events of this day to be difficult.”  
  
“Tell me about it; I hate dealing with Scotty when he’s drunk.” Dinauri huffed, dragging a hand through her red curls while Spock miserably wondered whether or not Dinauri had picked that nickname up from Kirk. “But this is about you, my dear nerdy Vulcan.” As Spock’s eyebrow migrated northward, she clarified, “What happened with you and Jim?”  
  
“We met,” Spock reported tonelessly. “We spoke. We departed. Duration of social interaction: 44.37622 minutes.”  
  
Dinauri’s mouth fell open. “That’s three more decimal spaces than I’ve heard you use for anything but _particle collisions_.”  
  
Spock did not respond. When counting the minutes until his escape from Kirk’s personal space had proved insufficient, he’d moved on to more fractional quantities.  
  
“The thing is,” Dinauri said, producing her own lunch now. “I got that Scotty’s helping wasn’t so helpful. I figured he’d made you hang out with Gary or Todd or Anthony—one of his drunken barbarians. But it was _Jim_?” She peered at Spock until he confirmed this with a nod, and then she rapidly spooned soup into her mouth. After a moment, she continued, “Sure, Jim’s a barbarian too. But he’s a _loveable_ barbarian.”  
  
Spock had this moment where he wondered if his coworkers didn’t use the vastly mentally inferior being as a sort of talking monkey for their amusement. He knew that humans find basic sentience mixed with animal insipience to be endearing. He also knew that he would be genuinely disappointed in them if this was the case, so he dismissed the thought.  
  
“And Jim seriously hates you,” Dinauri told Spock urgently, as though this news should in some way startle or upset him. Spock blinked.  
  
“I have reached the same conclusion,” Spock said dryly, eating his salad with a total lack of enthusiasm. Dinauri nodded.  
  
“Yeah, he wasn’t exactly keeping any secrets about it.” She leaned partially across the table. “So? What happened? I want all the details—which one of you pissed the other off?”  
  
Spock was not sure of how to answer that one without inadvertently claiming to have experienced emotion. Which was nothing he would admit in front of Syrek. “We were incompatible on multiple levels,” Spock finally said. Which meant: _I found him very unintelligent, sullen, messy, inappropriate in his actions, and intimidating in his behavior._ “I do not believe we could attain more than a peaceful neutrality in our interactions.” Which meant: _please warn me ahead of time if he’s coming to my second home again, so I can run and hide in the bathroom_.  
  
Syrek, whose telepathic field was inferior to Spock’s, had no smarmy behavior to send Spock’s way. So they had that.  
  
Dinauri was still staring at him, lips pinched tight, eyes very wide, and Spock had concerns for her blood pressure. He conceded, “However, if you desire to know which among us determined the incompatibility first, I would attribute that to Kirk.”  
  
“Really?” Dinauri asked. “Did you…” She looked uncomfortable, for perhaps the first time in Spock’s experience. Spock set down his fork, unnerved. “Did you do something to him? Like maybe talk about his dad, or…?” She trailed off, leaving it to Spock’s imagination. Any one of the thousands of social missteps he could have taken, and almost surely did. The problem was that Spock was still unable to recognize any of them.  
  
“Negative,” Spock answered anyway. “He… appeared to be experiencing dissatisfaction with our interactions before I addressed him.”  
  
Spock spent the next moment of Dinauri’s silent regard feeling like a tremendous failure of a sentient being, because he could not hold a conversation with either humans or Vulcans. He could apparently hold a conversation with Orions, but he was sure that this was only because Dinauri made an exceptional effort when it came to him.  
  
Conversational skills were basic. Spock still had no claim to them. Another error in a list of many.  
  
“Spock,” Dinauri said softly, and laid her hand on the table beside his, not touching. It nevertheless conveyed her aim—a gesture of comfort. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know why he would do that—don’t feel bad.”  
  
“Apologies are unnecessary,” Spock said and resumed eating. “I do not ‘feel’ one way or another.”  
  
Except he did, and he got the feeling that Syrek wasn’t disproportionately impressed with a Vulcan who lied, either.  
  
The rest of the lunch period passed uneventfully, and then—because this day hadn’t been perfect enough already—Spock got stuck dealing with the matter converters, which had decided to behave illogically and drop efficiency for no reason that Spock could discern. Thus, he was forced to request Syrek’s assistance and the two of them shut down the hub and begin going through the data, looking for clues.  
  
It was illogical to speak, as that decreased their efficiency, but Spock saw a small frown on Syrek’s face. Therefore it seemed very natural to ask, “Are the data readings inadequate to your eye, Syrek?”  
  
“Negative,” Syrek replied, and did not go on. And yet the frown remained.  
  
“You are expressing a degree of dissatisfaction,” Spock said as diplomatically as possible. “Perhaps I may be of assistance.”  
  
Syrek looked up from his PADD, expression unreadable, but not visibly negative, which was more than Spock had expected. Spock pressed, “It is not my intention to dismiss your expertise on this subject; you are my superior in the field of matter-antimatter dynamics . However, as I have been working with the matter converters for a significant period this afternoon, I may have observed that which can provide further insight.”  
  
“Spock,” Syrek addressed in neutral tones. “Your logic is sound.”  
  
Spock inclined his head, and waited for Syrek to continue. Instead, Syrek observed him silently.  
  
“You speak as a Vulcan,” he finally asserted, and Spock very nearly blushed. In their interactions over the past six months, Syrek had never indicated satisfaction with _any_ component of Spock’s incomplete Vulcan heritage. Spock inclined his head again, feeling a small, undeniable swell of pride within him.  
  
He spoke as a Vulcan. Perhaps… perhaps there was a species that Spock’s social skills were considered adequate among. Perhaps he had been too hasty in his judgments of Syrek and his other Vulcan acquaintances. He should re-examine his logic.  
  
Spock knew that thanks were unnecessary and illogical, and therefore didn’t give them. Syrek regarded him solemnly, and then said, “It is curious.”  
  
“Please elaborate.”  
  
“To my untrained ears, you speak as a Vulcan.” Syrek’s head tilted to the left by 1.3 centimeters. Spock could feel genuine curiosity. “But you are not Vulcan. You are an emotional, illogical, flawed creation. You are an aberration, and your existence places an undesirable stigma upon my species.”  
  
This was all said quietly, succinctly, and without the slightest indication of hatred or disgust. Syrek did not express a single emotion. Spock blinked once, and then folded his trembling hands behind his back. He hoped that Syrek did not notice.  
  
“I am troubled by this opinion,” Spock said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I believe it to be fallacious.”  
  
Syrek returned to his data PADD. “As I am troubled by your speaking as a Vulcan when you are not one of us.” As Spock ran through his physiological state, trying to assure himself that his face was expressionless, that his cardiovascular and respirations rates were normal, that there was no outward appearance of distress aside from his easily hidden hands, Syrek added, “I do not require your assistance at this time. Spock.”  
  
Spock did not require superior social skills to recognize a dismissal when he heard one.  
  
He was so attuned to Syrek for the rest of his work period—and so determined to give no sign of mental disturbance—that he was mostly useless and didn’t finish a single project. Chekov flinched when he was handing Spock the latest round of calculations (which he never did around Syrek) and by the end of the day, Dinauri was shooting Spock worried looks every 3.5 minutes.  
  
Spock left quickly, escaping before she could draw him into another conversation. He had been mocked sufficiently for one day.  
  
His cactus managed to be alive by the time he made it home. Spock was disproportionately pleased to see this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay. I swear this is the last one. Stuff will begin to improve after this. Really. I'm not screwing with you.
> 
> ...Much.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> See? Doesn't this make you guys growl at Kirk less?  
> \----

Kirk reminded Spock of a creature from Vulcan that his mother had told him about. He didn’t have the superficial physical traits of an _or’su_ , but Spock’s mother used to tell him about these flocks of radiantly feathered birds. How they lit up the normally desolate landscape of the planet, how you could hear their songs at midday like a second ringing of the High Tower bells, and how you were _never, ever supposed to feed them_ because as soon as you did, they would find their way back every day for the rest of their lives and pretty soon you would be buried in hungry, squabbling birds and the Vulcan high counsel would call you in for a three hour reprimanding.  
  
Basically, Kirk started showing up to the labs regularly.  
  
Spock was not sure what to make of his behavior. Kirk was capable of foraging independently. In spite of his obvious mental deficiencies, he wore Terran clothing of decent quality and more often than not, he was the one cluttering their workspace with food, making Syrek frown about sanitation codes and Spock place his lunch items strategically about him to fend of Dinauri’s attempts at peacemaking.  
  
Given this, Spock had concluded that it was some strange form of harassment. Evidently, Spock’s very presence in the vicinity of Kirk’s city required negative reinforcement. Therefore Kirk and his friends dropped by constantly, disrupting work with their noise pollution, snacks, distraction of Spock’s workfellows, and Kirk’s glares (which, granted, didn’t seem to affect anyone else, but Spock’s efficiency dropped on average by 32% while he felt Kirk’s sharp eyes against the back of his neck).  
  
The only positive feature of these interactions was that unless Spock approached the social groups that formed, Kirk did not single him out and left him to work quietly. This was a comfort, although not much of one, because Kirk tended to make unpleasant comments about Spock and Spock kept listening.  
  
Besides, while enduring Kirk’s presence, Spock usually found himself working exclusively with Syrek, which dropped his efficiency further. He was not comfortable with the full-Vulcan. He also suspected that his presence was disrupting Syrek’s efforts, so he tended to seek out alternative work environments—which so far had been utterly inferior) and basically huddle there in unconsciously expressed misery until Kirk and his minions departed.  
  
Spock observed Kirk. He couldn’t prevent himself.  
  
Kirk’s preferred mode of dress—a scuffed leather jacket, cheap blue jeans, and an endless supply of worn T-shirts with inscrutable logos—suggested civilian service, while his ease of access to Starfleet Academy’s campus and the research labs suggested otherwise.  
  
(Custodian? Spock wondered. Groundskeeper? Perhaps kitchen staff—but he did not smell of food.)  
  
In Spock’s experience, friendships formed between similarly intelligent creatures. Had Kirk developed a survival mechanism allowing him to form such bonds with significantly more intellectual beings? Spock would have loved to examine the theory, but being within two feet of Kirk proved detrimental to them both, so he didn’t try. He did not wish to ask his coworkers their reasons for this friendship because it would be rude (another unfortunate lesson from the second grade) and because Spock did not want to invite more speculation about why he and Kirk were so obviously opposed to each other.  
  
There was something… else off about Kirk. Something about him seemed anomalous to the core, but Spock could not place it. Most likely, it was simply the intensity of his dislike broadcasting into Spock’s telepathic field, but...  
  
Spock wasn’t certain. Whatever it was, it merited further study, but as soon as Kirk shot a glare his way, Spock automatically found somewhere else to be. Unprecedented though it may have been, Spock could not abide Kirk’s demonstrations of loathing.

\----

On Friday, Spock was hiding from Kirk and his friends by doing a full diagnostic on the transporter hub. He had seventeen proposals for how to raise its efficiency already (and he found the work soothing). Most of the hubbub had died down and now it was just Spock and his numbers—basically, hands-on meditation with this machinery. He wound up crawled halfway inside the hub, examining the wiring and absently mumbling to himself.  
  
When he heard footsteps, he knew that Kirk had departed and one of his colleagues was heading back to the workstations. “Excuse me,” Spock called, raising his voice enough to be heard outside of the hub. “I require the 2.3 EMP gauge.” It was by his foot, which he rustled helpfully, in case he hadn’t been seen.  
  
The footsteps stopped. No gauge was forthcoming. “Over here,” Spock called hopefully. He’d just gotten comfortable. He really didn’t want to waste five minutes squirming his way in and out of the maintenance hatch just to get the tool lying 0.4 meters away from his person.  
  
It seemed that he had no choice in the matter—but then he heard the footsteps approaching wordlessly. At first he thought it was Syrek, just because Spock’s other colleagues tended to engage him in conversation, but there was a light grunt outside the maintenance hatch that was not Syrek’s vocal pattern—  
  
And then the EMP gauge was being handed to Spock and Spock concerned himself with this instead. “My thanks,” Spock said, mindful of human etiquette. He turned the gauge on and ran it over the wires. As he’d suspected, readings exceeded optimal parameters. Spock noted potential correction number eighteen, and a muffled voice from outside commented,  
  
“I didn’t know you guys even knew how to say that.”  
  
Spock frowned inside the darkness of the machinery. “Excuse me?” The voice seemed unfamiliar to him, although this could have been the effect of his obstructed hearing. “Please identify yourself.”  
  
He heard a strange, choked sort of laughter. Spock could not identify it as within any of his coworker’s vocal patterns. A rush of fear iced over his spine. Spock was incapacitated, visually and physically, literally buried in tons of potentially dangerous machinery. He did not know or recognize the individual who was with him, and most chillingly, none of his colleagues knew where he was.  
  
They had no reason to look for him. Spock had been avoiding them. Spock’s breath caught in his throat and he had to fight the irrational urge to retreat farther into the metal shell of the hub, incapacitating himself further.  
  
 _You are no longer a child_ , Spock reminded himself. _You are neither weak nor small. You do not need to wait for your mother to find you—simply treat this situation as you would any other. Look at it calmly. Logically._  
  
“So I guess this is revenge,” the unfamiliar voice announced. Spock’s throat closed. So. This was an attack after all.  
  
Spock was prepared for physical assault, to block it out and shunt it aside. To think his way through this and engage in the tedious process of climbing out of the hub, into visual range of his attacker.  
  
But the pain didn’t come. He was left humming with anticipation and a spiraling sense of fear that he, not being Vulcan, had no chance of controlling.  
  
“Hey, I know your name,” he was told, and Spock blinked rapidly. The unfamiliar voice sounded almost grudging as it added, “Spock.”  
  
And still, the attack didn’t come. Spock’s breathing had deepened out again, initial flood of panic exhausted. In 3.4 minutes, he could maneuver out of the hub without damaging any equipment (2.1 if he was less careful) and from there, he could apply blunt force trauma with his tricorder (the EMP gauge would be more difficult to replace if damaged), facilitating his escape and approach of the nearest authority. The physical damage that could be done in 3.4-2.1 minutes, give or take 1 minute for unexpected complication, was unlikely to prove fatal.  
  
Spock had no reason to fear.  
  
His breathing shuddered out of control.  
  
The voice was silent for a moment. “Got anything to say to that?” Spock was finally asked.  
  
Spock swallowed down the initial, emotionally-motivated response— _I have done nothing to you, I do not know you, why do you wish to do this?_ Instead, he let his voice come out steady and commanding.  
  
“You will cease engaging me in the pointless conversation and depart immediately.”  
  
He did not sound even slightly scared. His heart rate had increased by 4.6, his endocrine system was dumping adrenaline into his bloodstream at a rate that was already making Spock’s extremities numb, and his fingertips had dug into the solid metal of the EMP gauge in spite of his best efforts.  
  
And it worked. “Yeah, sure,” the voice said quietly—an edge to it so vicious that Spock automatically braced for physical harm—but it didn’t come. The footsteps receded. Spock’s eyes closed and he lay in the dark, gasping for breath.  
  
By the time he even thought to climb back out of the maintenance hatch, all he saw was Kirk’s back as he shoved his way through the doors.  
  
Assailants didn't retreat when you asked them to.  
  
Kirk had come to say... that he knew Spock's name.

\----

At 1341.5 hours, Spock’s colleagues returned from their extended lunch break. He heard them—identified their voices and their conversation about the next round of experiments—and decided that he was in error to remain in the lab. He had eighteen corrections to report and mental processes more resistant to emotion pushed him to offer insight to their conversation—additional magnetic intervention might speed up the laser compression units—but these things would have to wait for tomorrow.  
  
Dinauri spotted him first. “Spock!” She exclaimed, bounding over to his workspace. “How was it? Did you guys have a good talk—?“  
  
And in his state, Spock registered even this as a threat. He was out of his seat quickly enough to make Dinauri’s smile falter and backing away helplessly. “I am unwell,” he said roughly, aware that they were all looking at him, and burning with shame. “I request permission to depart early.”  
  
Spock had never made such a request. He wouldn’t, not when he respected the work so much. When he was so lucky to have the opportunity to work here.  
  
Dinauri’s expression had totally changed. Spock locked his eyes to the floor, and tried to look less like he was falling apart.  
  
“Permission granted,” Scott said without any hesitation. Emotions flew unprompted out of Spock’s psyche—hurt and _am I so expendable?_ and **anger** and sharply biting relief—tangling his thoughts together until all he could manage was a nod.  
  
He didn’t remember leaving the room. He didn’t remember anything at all until he was safely in his apartment, huddled in the corner, focused on breathing. The stiffness of his muscles informed him that he had not moved in 4.3 hours. As did the dryness of his throat.  
  
Spock got up for a glass of water.  
  
He was capable, at this point, of processing that he had been in error. With 82% certainty, Kirk had not approached him with violent intentions. Most likely, this had been the result of Dinauri’s mediations. Spock had heard that it was common for individuals to be forced into each other’s exclusive company in order to accomplish congenial relations. Kirk had come to… speak with him.  
  
And Spock had done _everything wrong._  
  
It had been Spock whose unreasonable panic led to the detrimental outcome. And he still remained crippled by these emotions. He knew, because the simple thought of trying to approach Kirk to give the apology and explanation he knew was expected…  
  
Spock wedged himself between the bookshelf and the table containing his cactus, and appreciated the fact that it was the weekend and he was not required to leave the safety of his quarters.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I only now realize the great amount of parallels between this and a certain chapter of Laws of Attraction... Ugh. In my defense, I did write these around the same time.  
> Also, I do actually know of other ways for people to bond than violence! I'm not crazy! Don't make senseless allegations upon my character!  
> The parallels end here. Because the stories are different. Obviously.  
> So, I promised that I was done making Spock suffer. Did I lie? You decide! : D  
> \----

Spock left his quarters on Sunday.

It was not really a conscious decision. His emotions had continued to fluctuate following his poorly-handled anxiety attack, and Spock had found himself acting on many unfounded impulses. The cactus, interestingly, appeared to have weathered all of these. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Spock’s furniture.

Which was why he found himself suddenly leaving his home at 23:04 hours on Sunday evening. He would go furniture shopping, and he would do so to prove his functionality in the universe that continued to mock him for his faults and on some level, he was doing so to prove himself to both Syrek and James Kirk (for though they were not present, they occupied rather too many of Spock’s thoughts and it had begun to feel as though they followed him).

Spock had never been out on the San Francisco streets at night. There were a plethora of interesting new sensations to experience, lighting his emotional range into a veritable fireworks display. And they all—they were _nothing_ Vulcan. They felt so _much_. Spock reeled and crashed between the people packing the streets to imbibe, to meet friends, to engage in romantic liaisons, to engage in liaisons of a much less pleasant nature, to buy, steal, cheat, look, study.

So much. There was so much _experience_ around him, and Spock’s mouth hung open like he could breathe it. Replacement furniture was the farthest thing from his mind.

He let it all move him like a tide. Made no effort to separate his telepathy from his thoughts; their thoughts were his. He sought food on another person’s hunger, only to be distracted by a promised rendezvous with an ex-girlfriend he’d never met, and somehow wound up in front of a series of bars with a deep desire to _forget, forget, forget_ , which was _exactly_ what Spock wanted to do. He’d wanted it from the beginning. He stepped forward to go inside, but a noise distracted him.

A thwacking sound, as though someone had engaged in a recreational sport— _soccer_ , Spock’s mind supplied automatically. _Baseball, kickball, basketball, eqball, zom-huri._ There were various possibilities. Spock wanted to know what it was like. His mind and feet moved in tandem, seeking.

And suddenly he understood. This was what it felt like.

This was what it felt like to have someone on their knees. To have someone totally in his power and _stupid motherfucker, whose laughing now? You want some more? I’ll teach you. Go ahead and run that mouth—_

This was what it was to inflict pain. On a weaker being, hunched against a brick wall, away from the blows falling upon it. Four against one, and Spock’s jaw still hurt from the little shit’s last punch before he’d gone down and he was going to pay it back. It felt **good—**

Spock jerked himself away, gasping against the bricks of the building’s corner.

And his shields were suddenly around him, telepathic field dulled, his mind a distinct thing once again. Spock isolated himself because he refused to understand this cruelty. He was neither Vulcan nor human, but he was _better than this._

He was also coughing loudly on the air in his lungs, and four burly men had looked away from the miserable creature on the ground, the lump of denim and leather broadcasting enough pain to set Spock’s teeth on edge. He cracked his eyes open, panting, and met the eyes of an attacker. They were a dull blue, bloodshot, and hateful enough that Spock’s instincts screamed at him to turn and run.

“Walk away,” the man advised.

Spock moved quickly.

He barely knew how to make a fist, but he must have succeeded on some level, because the speaker folded around his hand like wet laundry. Spock stumbled, overbalanced, and something smashed into the side of his head. Stars bloomed in his retinas. Spock froze at the pain, and took another blow to the shoulder. Saw the victim’s blood staining the pavement.

Spock’s elbow snapped out into another attacker’s jaw. It worked better than his fist. That attacker hit the ground—Spock took another punch—ribs, this time. _Two ribs broken,_ his body informed him clinically. Spock made a fist that looked like the one flying at his nose, and proved that he was the faster of the pair. This man crashed into the wall, opposite the victim of their beating.

The first man was up again. Spock kicked him back down. There was a flash of pleasure— _doesn’t it feel good to be angry?_ —and Spock thrust it away. This was nothing invigorating. It was simple math. Three errors to be eliminated. Probable cause: mobility. Neutralize with unconsciousness, or unwillingness to persist in altercation.

So Vulcan strength could be used as a weapon, not just an excuse for Scott to make him lug heavy machine components around. Curious. Spock had never been able to stop the people who came after him.

Now he could. That should have been invigorating—it was justice. But no, it didn’t feel good; Spock just wanted these men to go. Not for the first time, Spock wished he knew how to use the Vulcan nerve pinch. This would certainly have been the moment to use it. Instead, he made clumsy parallels of their fists and poured brute strength into it. It felt like this would never stop.

But it did. _Finally._ Three men were on the ground and once his companions were unconscious, the last man was unwilling to continue. “Just wait!” He hissed back at Spock, limping as he retreated. “I will take this out of your hide, you fucking xeno scum!”

Spock watched blankly, and when he was sure the man was not doubling back, he crouched beside the victim. It was male—human—and had a great deal of blood on his face. He stirred slightly at Spock’s approach, groaning again, and Spock told him softly, “Be still. You are severely injured.”

As carefully as possible, he let his fingers skim the human’s skin, trying to take stock of the injuries. It was difficult—melding would be more efficient, supposedly; but that skill was also beyond Spock—and Spock determined that although the human was very damaged and bleeding, his internal organs were intact from the defensive strategy he’d taken. Curl into a ball and shield whatever you can.

Spock remembered this defensive strategy from his childhood.

Anger flowed through him at the thought of this being inflicted on anyone else, but he forced it back down, continuing to take stock of his injuries. Broken wrist. Fractured ribs—something was very wrong with his shoulder, although Spock was not able to pinpoint what. Multiple contusions and lacerations, potential concussion.

The human was trying to stir again. “Do not attempt to move,” Spock told him again, a little more impatiently. “You will exacerbate your—“

He froze, mouth closing tightly.

Jim Kirk’s eyes were still shocking blue, even with one of them nearly swollen shut. “S… ock?” He rasped. Spock’s eyebrows rose. His voice sounded _terrible._ It sounded as though he’d spent the last hour being strangled.

“I am Spock,” he corrected automatically. He then removed his hands from Kirk’s personage, doubting that they had any right to be there.

Kirk gave a painful-sounding wheeze of air and Spock’s hands flew back to him. Were his lungs in danger? No—and after a moment of confused shock, Spock realized that Kirk was laughing at him.

Now was really not the time for this.

Kirk mumbled something completely unintelligible. Spock’s contact with his skin helped get the meaning across. _Didn’t know it was me, huh?_

“I did not,” Spock said softly. He looked around, eyes resting briefly on the two men he had injured into unconsciousness.

He was 87% sure that the damage he’d dealt was superficial; he’d purposefully avoided vital organ systems and delicate structures such as the eyes. They still required a medical professional; so, clearly, did Kirk. Spock did not own a messaging device with which to summon the paramedics of San Francisco General. And no one had conveniently appeared to offer Spock such a device.

Kirk’s thoughts buzzed against his hand. His mind was a school of fish—there were an overwhelming number of thoughts and threads, and Kirk’s efforts at coherency felt like being battered with the same question many times over. It was disorienting.

_Why?_ Kirk was asking.

_Why what?_ Spock knew that the drinking establishment they were currently leaning against likely had a communications device inside. However he was reluctant to leave these men unattended for any period of time.

Too late he realized that he had spoken directly into Kirk’s mind. An unforgivable breach of propriety. Aghast, he scrambled to apologize, but Kirk didn’t seem to notice.

Spock saw a flash of himself—his ankles?—and the eyes traveled up in time to see Spock drive his fist into a human’s stomach. These were Kirk’s eyes, and Kirk’s memory. Spock winced at the expression on his own face—raw fury—and the inherent violence of the act. He was committing an atrocity. Around him, James Kirk’s mind swam through the past giddily.

_Why. Why help? Why—who did you think you were helping? Who would you do that for?_

There were more images, all superimposing one after another. Spock’s hands striking flesh, breaking bones, his own body curling away from the impact of their counterattacks. The color of his own blood— _so green_ , Kirk thought with fascination—as his skin ruptured. Spock fought a rising wave of nausea at the sensation of so many thoughts. At the reminder of what he’d done.

Kirk’s brain was a terribly chaotic place. Perhaps it was the concussion, perhaps this was the brain of someone mentally unwell, someone deficient. Spock had no idea how to tell the difference. Telepathy was one thing, sharing a person’s thoughts were another.

He was also too busy fighting the need to be sick to notice that Kirk’s question had gone unanswered. Kirk pulled the answer from Spock’s own mind. Shock bloomed in them both.

_For anyone?_ Kirk asked, wonderingly. _Really?_

And Spock’s hands jerked away from Kirk’s skin as he gasped, “How did you do that?”

Without the mental connection, Kirk couldn’t answer in any satisfactory way. His mouth crooked into a ghastly smile and Spock stared. No one had ever taken data from Spock’s mind. It was not possible. That would require a meld and Spock did not meld with Kirk. He could not. He did not know how to.

He did not have the time to consider this further. Kirk’s eyes were closing. Spock’s hands hesitated over his shoulder for a moment—he did not want to yield up more information—but in the end this was irrelevant compared to a human life. He touched Kirk’s skin again. “You must not sleep,” he told Kirk. “You have a concussion. Do _not_ sleep.”

_Tired,_ was all Kirk replied with. Spock tried to push the fatigue aside. Vulcans were supposed to be able to—

But Spock was not Vulcan and Kirk subsided into unconsciousness.

Spock shook him back awake. Kirk moaned at him unhappily, even his thoughts going thick and opaque.

Spock was wasting time. He could no longer trust Kirk to remain conscious, so he needed to move him.

“I am going to pick you up,” Spock warned Kirk. Kirk’s thoughts churned sickeningly, but his eyes stayed open, and Spock lifted him from the ground as carefully as possible.

His body was heavy with muscle (and his lack of interest in helping). Kirk was smaller than he’d first appeared to Spock, however. They were roughly the same size. Being so damaged made Kirk’s body seem incongruously delicate and Spock handled him gently. Kirk grunted once as Spock settled him into his arms, head falling heavily against Spock’s chest. He smelled copiously of alcohol, and his own iron-based blood.

“Do not sleep,” Spock reminded him. Kirk’s blonde hair tickled his neck.

_I know,_ Kirk mumbled into his mind. His skin was cool and sticky against Spock’s.

As for the other gentlemen, they would simply have to remain unguarded out here until Spock completed his call. If they had not been prepared for this eventuality, they should never have perpetrated violence against someone else.

When Spock stepped back onto the thoroughfare, he was too concerned with Kirk’s lapsing consciousness to pay much attention to his surroundings. He was aware of eyes upon him, and aware that he would usually be panicking under their weight. But he simply could not spare that weakness. Kirk needed him.

Additionally, the fact that he was carrying someone who looked like they’d been beaten to hell and back made people very eager to assist him. He barely got the words out of his mouth, “I request communications—“ when the bartender was shouting into a microcomm for 911 assistance. There were a variety of other citizens in the bar, staring at Spock from a distance ranging from 2.1 meters to 5.5. It was as though there is a force field around him, and no one seemed willing to cross it. They stared at Spock with very wide eyes as he cradled James Kirk (of all people), and tried very hard not to jostle injured areas.

“Buddy,” the bartender said, making an abortive motion like he was going to tap Spock on the shoulder. He jerked back, pale when Spock’s eyes flickered to him. “You wanna sit down? Maybe set that guy on the pool table or something?”

Illogical. Kirk’s blood would likely stain the pool table, whereas Spock’s clothing was already a lost cause. Kirk’s thoughts were blurred again, laced with horrible pain. Spock felt the phantom pain himself and it was like being a child all over again. The room was full of people. Spock did not trust them.

“I do not require seating,” Spock ended up saying. The bartender retreated with his hands held up in a wide, placating motion. A part of Spock was slightly concerned. The rest of him was preoccupied with how he was surrounded by unfamiliar faces and he could not lose it right now. He had to make sure Kirk was alright. Just until the paramedics arrived.

Spock took care not to clutch the injured person tighter.

“Why don’t you put him down?” The female paramedic said over the rushing in Spock’s ears. Spock met her eyes momentarily and they both went still. Kirk’s mind stirred against Spock, bitterly exhausted and charred with pain.

_Spock?_

Spock placed Kirk on the gurney with great care, not wishing to cause him any further discomfort. Only one step away and their connection was severed.

It was like having his legs cut out from under him.

On the gurney, Kirk sighed, eyes drooping with renewed exhaustion. Paramedics surrounded him quickly, taking readings and beginning preliminary treatments. “I need you to come with me,” the female paramedic said, extending a hand towards Spock, motioning him forward.

His vision blurred. “Just sedative,” the female paramedic assured him, taking his arm. Had Spock been hypoed? “Relax. Your friend is safe.”

_He is not my friend_ , Spock wanted to protest. He was not sure if that was because Vulcan’s didn’t have friends or just because Kirk hated Spock’s guts, but it didn’t come out right.

Everything hurt.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping this one is up to snuff. I've been ignoring it for a long time, but when I read it just now, I... didn't hate it? This is the basis of love, I think? Besides, I wasn't very, er, stable when I left you guys. Better now, and I'm just gonna assume this isn't one of those decisions brought on by sleep deprivation and forgetting to eat actual food.
> 
> As ever, relying on you guys to tell me if I done goofed.
> 
> Also, lookit! I am technically not beating up on Spock!

Spock had been unconscious for too long when he woke up again. His body informed him about this; followed by a standard rush of guilt over the inactivity. Why had he been inactive for over twenty hours? He’d clearly missed work. And after he’d already proved unreliable on Friday afternoon.  
  
(Perhaps Scott would be more understanding if Spock sent him the efficiency corrections.)  
  
He reached absently for his PADD. It was not there.  
  
And Spock was also restrained to the bed he was on. His eyebrows inched towards his hairline.  
  
“Excuse me?” He said, which was much more of an objection than an actual inquiry. It was very illogical. His head was fuzzy and he couldn’t help it—Syrek wasn’t around anyway.  
  
The door opened and a nurse entered the room and smiled at him. Spock got the strong impression that she’d heard his question, and winced. He’d run through his basic understanding of scenarios that ended with one being restrained to a hospital bed with immediate response to vocal monitors.  
  
Spock shrunk into the bed covers. “I have behaved illogically,” he confessed. This made her blink.  
  
“What? Oh, no. You just wouldn’t rest.” She set aside her tricorder and methodically undid Spock’s restraints. Spock sat up as soon as he was able and folded his hands in his lap, eying her warily. “We have the police report and everything—look, you’re not in trouble.”  
  
Spock blinked.  
  
“But…” His voice was uncertain, and Spock took a moment to collect himself. “I was in error. I resorted to violence in a public place.” With more strength now, “This is punishable by law.” Wasn’t it?  
  
The nurse gave him a sudden grin, fascinating in its sharpness. “You kept them from kicking Jim’s head open. You’re not exactly the most evil man in the city, Spock Grayson—not even the worst man in this ward. And don’t worry; the cops saw it your way. You’re really not in any trouble.”  
  
Spock deduced that this nurse was part of Kirk’s strange collection of friends.  
  
He considered the sufficient degree of guilt to experience for dodging legal ramifications because everyone but him (and apparently three inebriated men outside of a bar) got along with James Kirk.  
  
His findings were inconclusive. He would… try again later. When his head stopped hurting.  
  
The nurse was scanning Spock over with the medical device. She hummed at the findings. “Alright. Now, we had a little trouble with you before we realized you weren’t fully Vulcan, but it seems like you’ve healed up just fine. Have you ever had any allergic reactions to astemosine?”  
  
Spock shook his head wordlessly. He was still processing.  
  
“Well, that’s good. We also ran you under the osteomote, so your skeletal integrity is at 89… Dermal regeneration at 67…” She looked up from the tricorder. “We weren’t able to give you a transfusion, unfortunately. Your antigens were like nothing we’ve seen and we didn’t want to risk a clotting event.”  
  
 _Small wonder,_ Spock thought, _when your blood is a mix of copper and iron-based compounds that developed in separate solar systems._ To his knowledge, virtually any transfusion would have been lethal.  
  
“Are you experiencing any dizziness, weakness, or shortness of breath?”  
  
Spock said, “Is Kirk well?”  
  
The nurse hid her smile behind the PADD. “Yes, he’s fine. McCoy’s with him, telling him what an idiot he is. You don’t have to worry.”  
  
Spock felt slightly as though this was a tactless thing for this ‘McCoy’ person to do. After all, it was not Kirk’s fault he was deficient.  
  
The nurse eyed Spock. “You know, this is the fourth time you’ve asked if he’s okay.”  
  
Spock colored immediately. “My apologies, Nurse. I appear to be experiencing memory lapse.”  
  
“Don’t be sorry,” the nurse told him brightly. “It’s really _sweet._ You wouldn’t stop worrying about him, and you took such a beating yourself.” Now her gaze turned intent.  
  
“I am experiencing no adverse symptoms to treatment,” Spock reported dutifully. His thought processes felt dulled, but that was because his body had not fully processed the sedative. His blood pressure was low, but well within manageable levels.  
  
The nurse beamed at him. “Great, then. Want to go see Jim? I bet he’d be glad to see you.”  
  
Spock dropped his gaze from her expression. Would Kirk be glad to see him?  
  
On Friday Spock had been unforgivably rude for no reason within Kirk’s purview. And on Sunday Kirk had witnessed Spock dismiss his higher principles, engage in physical violence, and invade Kirk’s mind.  
  
“I do not think this would be for the best,” Spock said diplomatically.  
  
The nurse was disappointed, but she still released Spock from medical care with a clean bill of health. It was too late in the evening to call Scott, so Spock sent a short apology message from the hospital computer terminal and then headed home on public transportation.  
  
Following this journey, he decided that he would never again submit to public transportation (which was exactly what he’d decided the last time he’d ridden in public transportation out of extreme necessity. Spock doubted his ability to make good on this promise to himself).  
  
He was greeted by a wrecked pile of kindling that had once been a table, several dents in his metal bedframe, and the knowledge that he’d put his foot through the bathroom mirror. He hung his head momentarily. When he lifted it, he was reminded that the cactus was in good health.  
  
So… so there was that.  
  
And then he went to check his messages in case Scott had sent him a reprimand for shirking his responsibilities. At which point Spock discovered that the hospital at some point had contacted his mother.  
  
After resting his face in his hands for several deeply regretful seconds, Spock read her message—what was his mother’s unique combination of worried hysterics, frantic advice, and deep disapproval for having involved himself in a dangerous situation. She made several threats, but by the end of the message Spock had determined that she was still in North Carolina. Although that status was subject to drastic change if Spock did not call her as soon as he got out of the hospital.  
  
Spock glanced at the chronometer. It was now 01:32 hours. Now would not be the ideal time to contact Amanda Grayson.  
  
(There was no ideal time.)  
  
In the morning. He’d call her in the morning. This was the most ideal.  
  
Although he’d spent so long unconscious in the hospital, Spock found himself greatly fatigued. He fell asleep in the same bloodstained clothes he’d carried Kirk in, unconscious as soon as his eyes closed.

\----

“I did not seek out a physical altercation, regardless of what has been conveyed to you.”

Was this not a suitably informative way to begin any conversation with your mother? Particularly when she had _just_ answered the comm line. Amanda would be able to efficiently adjust her subsequent statements this way.

In other words, the hospital stay (or possibly getting into a fight with three large Terran males) was not agreeing with Spock. And he didn’t want to get lectured.

Visible by hologram, Amanda Grayson’s expression was steely. “Hello, Spock.”

Spock tried not to fidget. “...Yes, hello. Mother.”

“Now,” Amanda crossed her arms. Spock tried not to react. That was not necessarily a combative gesture; perhaps her arms were tired. “Let’s go over the facts. Did you not intervene in a fight that had nothing to do with you?”

…Spock did not wish to answer this question.

“And did this not result in four Federation citizens receiving substantial injuries?”

Spock twitched. “I was only involved in three,” he protested as politely as possible. “Jim was injured prior to my arriva—“

“Spock?”

Spock resumed his contemplation of the wisdom of silence.

“And were you not injured yourself, such that I was _contacted by the hospital at two in the morning?_ ” To deny the facts would be only illogical. Also, his mother had probably recorded the call. Spock nodded a reluctant confirmation. “Do you have facts you want to add?”

“Affirmative.”

“I invite you,” Amanda’s tone was brilliantly acerbic, “To—just for a moment—let them go and empathize. Step into my shoes and use your imagination.”

Spock did not have to use his imagination. “I am sorry. It did not fully consider the repercussions of my actions.” He wasn’t able to meet her gaze. “It was not my intention to worry you.” _I’ve already done plenty of that._

“Do you understand why I’m mad?”

“Preeminently so,” Spock murmured. He had already purposefully sought out the one location in the house which would not showcase all his ruined furniture. He was in the laundry room. Amanda was observant. Spock had already accepted his fate.

Amanda nodded. “Okay. Now let’s take the human tactic. _Would you do it again?_ ”

Spock looked up.

This sort of question required that Spock consider the context of the question, and mood, and body language. The numerous other cues necessary to divine the correct answer. There was _always_ a correct answer when it came to humans, and Spock tended to get it wrong.

But that was the singularity of having a mother. Spock didn’t have to think about how to content her. She was the only person in the known galaxy who could understand Spock as he was and love him in spite of it. All Spock needed to give her was honesty, and he did.

“I would not.” The menacing knot of her arms collapsed to the armrests.

And Amanda grunted, “Okay, we’ll save the lecture. Let’s hear it—who’s this ‘Jim’?”

Hm. How might one go about explaining James Kirk? Furthermore, how did his mother know exactly which question to ask and make Spock maximally uncomfortable?

Amanda observed, “You made quite a face when I said his name.”

That was fairly easy to respond to, at least. Spock sighed. “That is the result of using such a title of address, I believe. It is informal.”

“Jim’s a formal person?” Amanda looked like she was beginning to smile. Spock tried not to blush.

“Most certainly not. But I think… he would object to my use of it.” Again, words were failing him. “He is… He is informal. But we are not on amicable standards, so I think he would object to my use of the informal.”

“So why _are_ you using it?” There was a wicked twinkle developing in her eye. “Oh no, Spock. Don’t tell me. Is this another exploration of ‘human antagonism’?”

That—that was not an event he cared to recall. He was even less keen on drawing parallels between his interactions with Kirk. “I am not the antagonist in this paradigm.”

“Are you sure? You might be confused.” Amanda blinked innocently from behind her office desk. “As I recall, you weren’t very good at it. Remember: asking for extra salt is not a feasible way of insulting someone’s cooking.”

“It is not antagonism,” Spock gave his mother a slightly dirty look. “Also, I would appreciate it if you would not mock my attempts at cultural understanding.” Amanda giggled. Spock reached the point where he dropped his face in his hands and announced, “We are off topic, and I will redirect it to an appropriate conversational point at this juncture.”

“Will you, now?”

Spock huffed, “Everyone else calls him Jim. I do not wish to be the exception.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Amanda said. Spock glanced at her from between his fingers. Amanda Grayson had a particular way of saying words like ‘reasonable’ and making sure that they immediately translated to ‘bullshit’. She added, “I haven’t heard why you suddenly think violence is an acceptable means of settling differences involving the ‘Informal Jim’.” She used finger quotes.

Spock was not fooled. This was clearly revenge. This was what happened when you woke a busy professor up at two in the morning before midterms and told her that her son was being hospitalized.

He rushed through the explanation in monotone, staring a little to the left of Amanda’s holographic gaze. “When I left home last night, I encountered several humans in the process of an assault. The victim appeared to be in poor condition.” Spock swallowed. His throat suddenly felt hoarse. “He was alone; I was concerned. I made a decision and responded. Closer investigation revealed that it was Jim—”

“Spock,” Amanda interrupted gently. “You sound like a police report. Look at me, please?” Spock did, though it required some effort. She smiled at him, and fond and sad and Spock cringed with shame that he had once again put that look on her face. “Are you really alright?”

Was he? No. ‘Alright’ was something Spock hadn’t been in a long time.

But he didn’t know where to _start_ , except that relying on her had never led to any strength. So he croaked out, “I am well.”

Silence stretched between them like elastic and Spock stiffened in anticipation. Amanda finally nodded. “Okay,” she said. And didn’t ask anything else. Her smile stayed a little sad. “You know I love you, sweetheart... so much.”

And Spock, ever awkward, blurted, “I will call you more often.”

His mother really was the only person who could love him in spite of it. Her laughter filled up the room and Spock closed his eyes and let it wash away all the things that hurt. Just for a moment. “See that you do, Spock. I want to be kept in the loop. I want _detailed reports._ ” She grinned. “And this Jim of yours sounds like quite the character!”

“He… yes, he is,” Spock faltered.

Amanda beamed at him. “I’d love to hear more about him.”

“Er.”

“What would you like to talk about, Spock? Your perfectly copacetic relationship with Jim, or why we’re having this conversation on top of a dryer?”

“This ultimatum is unsuitable to polite conversation,” Spock said. “I would like to request a third option.” Amanda tilted her head and crossed her arms into a perfect noose of Spock’s doom. He sighed.

She wasn’t going to be happy about the furniture.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> APRIL FOOOOOOOLS BWAHAHAHA  
> This totally counts as a prank because usually it's the other way round.  
> ...  
> ...Yeah, so. This seemed a lot cleverer in my head. Just gonna slink off and be embarrassed now.

Spock stood in front of the door, PADD in hand, arms at his sides, fully capable of walking out. He took another deep breath, and he still wasn’t moving.  
  
 _There are things you must do_ , Spock told himself, trying to be firm. His brain cited at least a dozen non-essential tasks that could be carried out from within the safety of his home and Spock closed his eyes.  
  
 _I will leave this apartment and head to my workplace. _I will arrive on time, prepared to calmly explain the reasons for my absence. If Syrek—__  
  
No. Syrek was not involved in this debate. Spock needed to think of something else.  
  
At this point Spock’s head was resting against the synthetic wood material of his door. Spock routed all other expressions of frustration into another sigh.  
  
 _Logic dictates that I leave this apartment._  
  
Unfortunately, logic did not dictate a single thing where Spock’s emotional state was concerned. It had all began to numb over into a miserable apathy, a nice change of pace from the cloying panic that had followed the end of his discussion with his mother. Once she’d disconnected, whatever veneer of calm that had been holding Spock in upright relocated elsewhere and now Spock was not moving past the door.  
  
This was not a problem he had. Frustration welled up—he sighed again, before it could find some other, more negative outlet.  
  
He would _miss_ work if he did not leave. He had to leave, and he knew he needed to do so immediately, but his feet wouldn’t budge. So Spock reviewed all the ways leaving the apartment as he had done _every day_ for _months_ could play out—emphasizing how very simple it would be to deal with any outcome—his body insisted that there was some complication he was missing. Something that could overrule every positive outcome available to him.  
  
His feet wouldn’t move, and he really and truly could not believe this was happening again. It had been years. He was not going to do this again.  
  
 _Leave_ , he tried one last time, but his shoulders were already sagging. He faltered one step back, and from there it was easy to retreat back into the gloom of his apartment. He’d moved most of the damaged furniture to the guest bedroom (the trash collection drop was less than fifteen minutes away on foot, but he’d had so much to do, so many other things to carry out first, he’d just run out of time, and yes, he knew those were all excuses), and the lights ware off. Being inside felt like failure, because that was what it was. He did not relish the thought of sending Mr. Scott another message, particularly a falsehood to disguise the fact that he could not—  
  
A knock. Spock straightened. Someone was at the door?  
  
When he didn’t move—frozen halfway between the front door and his computer terminal, the knock repeated itself impatiently. Spock found himself turning around. Answering would not be the same as stepping outside. More to the point, regardless of his personal failings, he was expected to have good manners, was he not?  
  
The knocking did not particularly care about Spock’s internal monologue. It repeated itself, and this time didn’t stop—it clattered like someone was trying to break in, and Spock found himself walking back to the door. That knocking needed to stop. Spock needed to concentrate on pushing past his shortcomings. Opening a door was easy, in this situation.  
  
Except he was met with a singularity so incredibly unexpected that Spock’s thoughts were interrupted completely. He stared.  
  
Jim Kirk looked considerably better with both eyes open and reduced internal bleeding.  
  
 _He is wearing a parka,_ offered Spock’s brain helpfully. _It is blue._ Had Spock really been reduced to basic observations, trying to build some momentum that way? No. He additionally enlisted the more complex informational query of, _Why is he here and how did he find me?_  
  
This state was highly suggestible, and somehow, when Jim muttered “You gonna let me in or what, man? Cold as balls out here” led to Spock stepping aside. Jim marched in without hesitation, and there was now a third living entity in Spock’s house.  
  
Fascinating. The panic was back, squeezing around Spock’s throat in a vice. He should tell Jim to leave. Or rather, he should be leaving—he had work—but instead Spock found himself closing the door, and putting shaking hands behind his back while Jim looked around.  
  
“Figures you guys’d live like fucking monks,” Jim huffed, and Spock did not quite cringe into the door, but it was a near thing. Jim glanced at him and his mouth twisted. “I—shit. Sorry. It just slips out.”  
  
Spock’s brain was not doing him many favors today. For a moment, it was trying to convince him that James Kirk was trying to be… civil?  
  
Jim raked a hand through his hair, making it all stand up, and then gave Spock an unpleasant look that didn’t quite translate. It wasn’t a glare? “I didn’t come here to give you a hard time,” Jim said (incorrect; everything about his posture expressed discomfort and the desire for increased distance). Spock distantly registered that Jim’s grammar seemed much improved. Jim rolled his eyes a few second after his declaration. “Would you quit with the scary Martian face?” He demanded, voice sharp enough to make Spock retreat a step. “I’m just here to—Jesus Christ, I’d tell you to sit down, but you have, like one chair, and it looks like it’s made of recycled monorail tracks.”  
  
Spock would not be surprised if the chair _were_ made of recycled monorail tracks. It was the only piece of living room furniture to survive the, er, meltdown he’d had. Spock’s very nice, very comfortable couch was in the guest room with its springs hanging out. Like everything else. How could the thought of remaining here with those broken things possibly be more attractive than spending a productive day with warp mechanics?  
  
 _Don’t you belong here anyway?_  
  
Spock was probably being impolite. “Would you like to sit?” He asked, gesturing towards the monorail chair.  
  
Jim scowled. “No, ET, I would not.”  
  
Spock’s hands fell slowly back to his sides. He swallowed. “I see.” And then he was silent, because he did not wish to antagonize his guest any further. Additionally, he would really like it if Jim would leave. It was difficult to say how much, exactly, Spock wanted to be alone in his house again, but if it had had a number, it would be an impressive one.  
  
Jim set his jaw and Spock braced himself. “So,” the human muttered. Spock registered a flash of narrowed eyes and wrinkled eyebrows (additionally, a startling lack of hostility—was he reading this wrong?) before Jim had his back to Spock and was stalking over to the cactus. Spock’s more breakable possessions had been the first to go, so the cactus now had the windowsill to itself and had become rather prominent in the room. Spock blinked at the set of his shoulders, and stayed perfectly still.  
  
“You a plant guy?” Jim asked, and reached out a hand—Spock opened his mouth to tell Jim to be careful—and Jim carefully ran his fingers along the plant, circumventing each danger. Spock watched, and stayed very still. “That’s cool. I’ve got a friend who’s all over that green thumb shit, and…”  
  
His voice was reminiscent of someone speaking to a total stranger; Spock could not find the hostility in it. Spock’s brow creased. He was not able to put this situation in context. Why was Jim here? The human glanced back at him, and all at once seemed to remember who he was talking to. Spock watched his gaze harden back into something familiar. Annoyance was a response that could be put into context.  
  
“But yeah. I can see that I’m getting in your way. I’m sure you’ve got very important things to do,” Jim said, straightening up and dropping his hands away from the plant. “Sorry to take up your time. Bye.”  
  
And then suddenly he was approaching much too fast—oh right, Spock was in front of the door. Spock should get out of the way.  
  
He stepped aside, as eager for Jim’s departure as Jim seemed to be. Jim yanked the door open without looking at Spock and said to the hallway, “Oh yeah. Thanks for stepping in earlier.” His tone indicated anything but gratitude. Spock stared at the doorknob, and Jim’s fingers around it, and wished that it would close. “I figure I should go ahead and say it. Wouldn’t want to make you think that humans don’t understand common fucking courtesy or anything like that.”  
  
 _Please leave._ But Spock, who’d heard the word courtesy, somehow wound up blurting the standard inquiry for the recently injured, “You are well?”  
  
He proceeded to heartily kick himself, because instead of hurrying things along and ending this painful conversation, his question stopped Jim short.  
  
Jim was still staring down the hallway. For a long moment there was perfect quiet, the sort that was ideal for self-reflection on how necessary it was to just never speak. Spock was not good at this level of interaction. Furthermore, the human didn’t appreciate it (and Spock truly wasn’t trying to antagonize him).  
  
“What,” Jim said tonelessly just after Spock lost control of his heart rate. It began to inch upwards; another exciting reminder of personal failure. Spock was collecting quite the assortment, and it wasn’t even noon.  
  
“I,” Spock hedged, then stopped and tried to rephrase his words into the most neutral, inoffensive statement possible. “You were unwell previously. You currently appear to be in good health. I am simply…” Oh heavens, what _was_ he doing? Why was he still talking? “…concerned,” Spock finished. When the silence prodded at him, he ended up adding miserably, “I do not think I apologized at the time, but allow me to extend my regrets—for my part in any unrest you may be suffering from.”  
  
Jim looked over at him sharply. He wasn’t even glaring, but his gaze still made Spock stiffen. Jim tilted his head like a bird. “Are you shitting me? You pulled my ass out of the fire.” His voice dropped to grumble, “And doesn’t everyone fucking know it.”  
  
“Um,” said Spock.  
  
Jim’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck do you even have to apologize for?”  
  
And Spock could no longer meet his gaze. “…I invaded your mind without permission,” he confessed softly, after the silence goaded him into it. “That was unacceptable, and I apologize. I should have been more careful.”  
  
Jim shifted so that he was leaning in the doorjam, gloved fingers hooked into his pockets. He was staring at Spock like he expected something more to follow. “Huh,” Jim said. His brows lowered. “Thought I dreamed that.”  
  
“You did not, I assure you,” Spock replied, ashamed and tenser with every second that followed and left James Kirk on his doorstep. He owed this penance, however. So he silently let Jim divine the retribution he sought. He sought tranquility, but Spock’s heart rate refused to calm.  
  
“Huh,” Jim repeated. Abruptly, he offered, “You know, you’re a lot less of a dick in your head.”  
  
That was quite the non-sequitur. Off-balance, Spock jerked back to observe the human, who was giving him a flatly expectant look. Spock returned the gaze. All that came to mind was that Spock had not once, in years of failing to participate in social interactions, ever been accused of being a dick. Incompetent, yes. Cowardly—evidently so. Perhaps even an abomination, incapable of human emotional management or Vulcan logic.  
  
…He was pretty sure he wasn’t a dick.  
  
He frowned at the human. “I find your judgment questionable.”  
  
“Because I’m human,” Jim answered immediately, as though Spock had just asked him a question. Spock had most certainly _not._ Jim’s eyes gleamed. He looked unfairly intelligent, and it almost fooled Spock for a moment into thinking that he was, in fact, a dick.  
  
Spock crossed his arms instead. He wasn’t sure how his attempted apology had led to this, but Spock’s temper suddenly wished to involve itself in the proceedings. “Because you are incorrect,” he told Jim. Jim arched an eyebrow. Heedless, Spock urged, “You should work on the accuracy of your insults first, before applying them to conversation.”  
  
The human snorted. “That one of your fancy green men proverbs?” He sneered a little as Spock’s mouth pinched together.  
  
“It is _common sense_ ,” Spock stressed. “You will insult me correctly, or not at all.”  
  
The human barked out a note of—of loudness, it was laughter—but what shocked Spock was how quiet their argument was because the rest of the world’s volume adjusted back up in that instant and startled him.  
  
Because he’d just been laughing, there was a smile on Jim’s face for a moment when he was looking at Spock. “Fuck you,” the human said, and pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket. “Fuck you for being home and actually answering the door. You were supposed to be at work, and I was going to just leave this on your doorstep and never talk to you.”  
  
Spock stared at the paper, inadvertently feeling intimidated. Perhaps it was a court order form the Board of Telepathic Ethical Treatment.  
  
Jim dropped the paper—once more, Spock desired to tell him to stop littering—and shook his head, still smiling. “Come with me if you want to live,” he said, and Spock’s eyebrows went up.  
  
“I… beg your pardon?”  
  
The human rolled his eyes. “Well, clearly you’re not going to work today. Do you have something better to do?”  
  
Than live? Presumably not.  
  
Jim stalked away from his front door, beckoning Spock after him. “Come on,” he called. “You look like a complete idiot just standing there.”  
  
Spock could not leave his apartment, even if he wanted to. This matter had already been firmly established. He could not—  
  
He took a step. His eyes widened.  
  
“Come _on_ ,” Jim commanded.  
  
Perhaps it would be best to lock the door before he followed the strange human into the city.


End file.
